Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine: Fall 2009

A student-run publication at Northeastern University, Boston, MA.

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Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine
spectrum.magazine@gmail.com
www.spectrum.neu.edu
234 Curry Student Center
Mailbox: 434 Curry Student Center
Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine showcases the talents of the writers and artists
at Northeastern University. All members of the Northeastern community are
encouraged to submit works of original poetry, prose, and visual art. For more
information, please visit www.spectrum.neu.edu.
Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine, Fall 2009 edition.
Copyright ÂŠ Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and respective authors.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of
Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and/or respective authors.
Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine reserves the right to edit submissions for layout, grammar,
spelling, and punctuation unless explicitly instructed by the author/artist.
Any references to people living or dead are purely coincidental, except in the cases of a public
figure. The views and opinions represented in this medium do not necessarily reflect those of
Northeastern University or the staff of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine.
Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine is printed by
www.uni-graphic.com
Special thanks to Phil Cara
Executive Staﬀ
Editor in Chief
Layout and Design
Financial Manager
Adver tising Manager
Secretar y
Assistant Editor
General Staﬀ
Michelle Buchman
Mar k Calley
Nick DeSimone
Andrea Hampel
Matt Kline
Miranda Paquet
Amanda Pr atti
Kelsey Ragsdale
Tar yn Sadauskas
Cour tney Stefanik
Magdalena Szalowski
Mick Thibodeau
Anna Westendorf
David Wong
Josh Olejarz
David Nadeau
Miriam Laufer
Lucia Allen
Diana Mai
Michelle Alexander
Layout Committee
MacKenzie Cockerill
Aylish O’Sullivan
Alyssa Sullivan
Peter Tran
Cover and theme art adapted from “Feet” by Ryan Tucker and “Individual, Indivisible” by
Sierra Smith, found within this issue of Spectrum.
From the Editor
You’re not reading the coolest version of this issue. Driven by an odd obsession
with feet and ﬂoor imagery, we printed this issue with two diﬀerent covers.
Both of feet. Both provocative. And the other one's better.
e artwork in the following pages is themed around the textures of ﬂoors, carpets, and surfaces—the things we walk on and by every day. We aren’t sure
why or how this happened, or even what it means. All we know is that we like
it. And we hope you will too.
anks for reading,
Josh Olejarz
In this issue:
2 “Feet” by Ryan Tuck
“Iris” by Jessica O’Neill
“Isolation Intensifies Ever ything” by Abby Zorbaugh
4 “Hustle and Bustle” by Gina Bollenback
“The Reason for the Season” by J.M. Olejarz
6 “Nonchalance is His Allure” by Abby Zorbaugh
“Hunted” by Carolyn Meer s
8 “Central Per k” by Natasha Mbabazi
“Columbus Ave.” by Miriam Laufer
10 “Water Wor ks” by Natasha Mbabazi
“Train” by Ryan Tuck
12 “The Yellow Line” by Jason Jedr usiak
“Red Brick Anonymity” by Natalie Schack
“Tailor Made” by J.M. Olejarz
14 “Leaving Ground” by Lauren Chapman
“Well It’s About Time” by Magdalena Szalowski
16 “Seagull” by Anna Westendorf
“Flight” by Ryan Tuck
18 “The Clash” by Jessica Moog
“On the Far m” by Jake Stains
“dear dr. Anxiety, dance” by Jason Jedr usiak
20 “Trainwreck” by Addya Bhowmick
“Looking Through” by C. Benedix
22 “Stain of Blackness” by James Cucchi
24 “Por trait” by Cait Madden
“She Thinks Her Middle Name
is Danger” by Abby Zorbaugh
26 “Gr ass Impressions” by Timothy Str ange
28 “Land on Me” by Carolyn Meer s
“Incognitus” by Tar a P. Vilk
30 “Shatter” by Jason Jedr usiak
“wor king title” by Caroline Steuer nagel
“Life Doesn’t Fit in a Spreadsheet” by Rebecca Payne
32 “The Ar t Professor” by Ana Roth
34 “Aubade” by Timothy Strange
“Papyr us” by Natalie Schack
“Let it Rest” by Cait Madden
36 “Thought I’d See You One
More Time” by Gina Bollenback
38 “Orient Point” Athulya Aravind
“Specula” by Carolyn Meer s
40 “Jesus and White Dresses” by Natalie Schack
“Wedding Day” by Natasha Mbabazi
42 “Wonder land” by Rachel Zar rell
44 “15 Drive” by Megan Var anyak
“Dawn Looks to Dusk Looks
to Dawn” by Carolyn Meer s
45 “Individual, Indivisible” by Sier r a Smith
“Feet” by Ryan Tuck
Isolatio
Isolation intensiﬁes everything.
hi
es Everyt
n Intensifi
I often go for aimless walks,
inventing ﬁctive destinations
just to get outside and breathe my thoughts,
inner monologue audible without chatter.
Cooking alone,
I savor the sharp knife
slicing squash crisp and even.
I heat meat various ways,
the grill sizzles and sputters,
or I stir-fry up a storm,
and bake things to warm the very heart of me
with taste.
I soap the fridge interior,
sponging dirt no one else thought to look for,
checking jellies’ dates;
it’s a strange victory when I discover rancid food.
But I eventually need
to again bask in the presence of people
and try to live out my daydreams.
Abby Zorbaugh
ing
2
Iris
Jessica O’Neill
I wish all love was limitless
and every day the aroma of it saturated the air
and emanated from every person's pores
to ﬂoat up forming molecules of love and cloud the skies,
to rain down upon burning cities, burning with the ﬁres of love—
burning, burning ﬂames engulﬁng structures built with love—
and the tears of love tearing apart freckled cheeks
would fall to the loving black asphault
to be loved by the soles of ﬁlthy shoes,
the souls of ﬁlthy men, to be loved by fearless women
whose perpetual love would ﬁll the burning buildings with fuel for the ﬁre...
unstoppable fuel, never to be staunched by earthly water,
only by the rain and tears of that love emanating from those pores—
those poor,
fragile hearts
broken.
4
lejarz
J.M. O
o
s
n
a
r
f
o
t
e
h
R
e Season
The
the most wonderful time of the year is December,
our month-long submersion in xmas,
the mass waterboarding of the population
with a torrent of holiday cheer. goodwill is converted into
truckloads of snowﬂake and gingerbread garbage
that gets littered, inches thick, around the country.
it snows not weather, but white and red potpourri,
as if the plumbing burst in the xmas factory,
spewing candy cane vomit and reindeer guts
up against the walls and all across the ﬂoors.
it’s wrapped up, then, and shipped out worldwide—
gifted to children who learn to love the yearly boxes
of soggy goo that puddle beneath the sludge-choked tree.
carolers sing, slogging through the stuﬀed santa claus
dolls that clog the gutters, and parents shopping for presents
kick and wade through knee-high grinning elves
in hats green like dollar bills. the country becomes a
boggy swampland, a hazardous scumpond of
predators quick to cash in on the people mucking through it.
and when the calendar strikes January, the whole mire is
sucked up and stored in monstrous large vats somewhere—
lurking, scheming, licking chops waiting
for its inevitable release next year.
“Hustle and Bustle” by Gina Bollenback
Z or
Abby
baugh
e
n
c
a
l
a
onch is His
Allure
N
Party boy makes me breakfast omelettes
after sleeping sweaty and naked.
I pad around the messy room in his plaid pajama pants,
not wanting to retrieve my discarded (now pot-scented) jeans from his floor.
He’s a hippie in the worst way,
bragging nonstop about musicfests;
passionate he loses himself as the bass throbs.
His shit-eating grin
says he usually gets what he wants.
A friend writes his paper,
freeing his time for god knows what.
Connecticut-bred politeness tempered with “dude” and “yo.”
Though less ambitious than I wish, I can’t resist:
he sure knows how to have fun.
His hands are golden,
strumming me guitarlike,
foreplay unforgotten.
Drunk me begs like never before:
words women coo into phones
only when paid by the minute.
I crack when he calls me sexy;
I’m well aware I’m not:
cute maybe, sexy never.
This rebellious mystery might be lying,
but I enjoy every minute.
6
“Hunted” by Carolyn Meer s
“Central Per k” by Natasha Mbabazi
Columbus Ave.
“Hey, baby, wanna save the polar bears?” doesn’t even merit a reaction these days. Two seconds later I’ve usually got a snazzy line about
how I’d be a fan of global warming on Facebook if I could. Attention-whoring bicycles are
getting blasé, and I am heartless in regard to a
certain family of seven. I’ll admit to some
slight curiosity about what the mustachioed
Hispanic man on the bicycle insults me with
every morning, but I’ve never stopped to inquire. I’ve never met the one-arm push-up
man, but, after the stories, I doubt he could
surprise me.
She was a true original. She blended in with
the crowd in an urban-professional outﬁt and
meticulous makeup. One wouldn’t suspect her
of designs of accosting innocent strangers. She
may have noticed my slight hesitation, as I
couldn’t help but notice her slightly-aboveordinary beauty. She took advantage.
Miriam Laufer
was vulnerable in an early-morning daze. “I
know this is kind of random, but do you read
the Bible?”
e ﬁrst get-out-of-jail-free card that occurred
to my hazy mind was, “I’m Jewish.” at may
have daunted her a bit, but she recovered
quickly. “Well, Jews have the Bible, too, right?
I’m talking about the Old Testament,” she clariﬁed.
Darn, I thought, as everybody else on the sidewalk swarmed to either side of us, abandoning
me to my predicament.
“Genesis 1:27. It says He created them in his
Image; male and female he created them.
What do you think that says about the original?”
It took me a moment to pick apart her words.
She knows what verse she’s quoting from—the
“Excuse me.” Her tone was beguiling, and I fanatic! Or did she just stay up all night read-
8
ing it? It triggered something in my memory, a
thought I had once about humans created in
the Image of God, male and female….but
what about the original…what?
She nodded emphatically. “That’s what I was
thinking,” she added in a (dramatized?) tone
of deep reflection, “thank you.” And, with that,
she finally glided out of my life.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her all the way
home and all that day. I found the exact verse
on the internet; her eerie precision was a strike
against her. Her face, though, the earnestness
of her brown eyes, the fact that she was walking just like everybody else—she only stopped
She repeated her question: “What do you for me—made me wonder.
think it says about the original?”
I’ll never know what motivated that woman to
at memory was back. A memory from a ask me that question. Whether it was a ranperson who used to take God and his Word se- dom thought that occurred to her in an instant,
another moment in a lifelong search for a God
riously. I knew the answer she wanted.
that looked like her, or an outreach of feminist
“at the original…must be both male and fe- evangelism, does it matter? A stranger affected
male.” I felt the relief like when a professor my day, and isn’t that the goal of all those peosmiles and nods heartily to let you know you’re ple out there? Maybe an ambiguous difference,
on the same wavelength. is woman was like an androgynous God, is something to
hope for.
searching not for an ultimate truth, but for a
similarity of thought with another human.
I hoped my expression conveyed my confusion
accurately and we could just nod and move on
with our lives. She was persistent. (Aren’t those
types always?)
“Water Wor ks” by Natasha Mbabazi
“Train” by Ryan Tuck
10
Red Brick Anonymity
Natalie Schack
e city is red brick gardens
with streetlight trees,
enveloping the pedestrian
in sheets of intimacy.
e ivy walls are closeness, pressing
ﬁrm, like swaddlings,
cool like absentminded breezes
coming oﬀ a faraway shore,
ﬁltered through someone's woods.
Cupping the bay in one hand
and arching her back
to the vastness of the west,
she cradles the lives and lives
twisted around each other
in the crannies of her bosom,
in the unending apartment buildings.
In the city, my ﬁngers
are entwined around everyone else's,
my feet jostle for space
with everyone else's,
my eyes hold conversations
with a thousand everyone elses.
ere is no prairie of low-lying
sun-bleached homes
that stretch themselves ﬂat and exposed,
revealing you as their blemish,
their child and stranger,
the uncertain paint spatter
on it—faultless white canvas—
as you pivot and slide directionless:
either a coy modernist expression,
or an artist's clumsy mistake.
12
J.M. Olejarz
a
M
de
r
Tailo
full orange at sunset are the colors of a common autumn—
it drapes silken from the sky, and velvet down the city walls
like a curtain, like too much fabric left to bunch in circling, pillowed folds
—it slowly turns the leaves to match—
oranges by default, yellows that haven't quite yet,
deep reds that drift from trees to river, land and ﬂoating on the surface.
they join the sunset's sparkling waterlights—an embroidered sapphire tapestry of
diamonds and opals, all set gleaming in the intricate nautical arrangement;
all raw materials waiting to be used.
a small sailboat drifts lazily,
gently nudging a path between the gems
like an indiscriminate jeweler picking through his vast collection
—jib and main raise casual claim to the surrounding riches—
the mate and captain recline on deck, lifejackets for cushions,
surveying and appraising the surrounding natural showroom. they gather in
the bolts of fabric, reach down and scoop handfuls of liquid thread,
to pencil mark the dimensions of the skyline, to fashion their own existence:
craftsmen, they are, who take the varied textures of the season, and snip
trim stitch them into something somehow personal, a chance individual ﬁt.
craftsmen, both, they are innate tailors, born to the task,
who can cut the living world
to suit them.
“The Yellow Line” by Jason Jedrusiak
“Leaving Ground” by Lauren Chapman
ki
Magdalena Szalows
Well It ’s
About Time
14
ey laughed when I died.
I told them they would.
I jumped out naked, so shield your eyes and giggle.
I forgot my parachute, or ripped it out when no one was watching,
I can’t remember which.
But the fall was clear as day and no accident.
I fell and fell and fell and fell some more,
And reached the grounds of the Barbary lions.
ey’re still alive, I swear!
But I’m not, for they mauled me.
e whole scenario was an act,
Read through but never rehearsed.
Razzle-dazzle, hula hoops, and even circus lions!
Oh how spectacular the show was,
And for the grand ﬁnale I spewed blood
Like communist communist communist confetti,
And still in the nude.
I had some pearls but Sylvia Plath stole them.
ey were mine ﬁrst, honest.
I don’t want them anymore.
ey say she got ‘em all sticky…
…Skank.
Anyway it was like the echo in a grand ballroom made by a mute—
e laughter,
e humor found in death,
e entertainment provided by the black plague,
e sold-out shows for the holocaust.
I was still somewhat of a star when my curtain closed—
Less than thirty, more than ten—
Not old enough, just like I promised.
I went out without a wrinkle,
For most bow looking like those cute Shar Peis.
I’m not a dog.
e personality of a female, perhaps,
But human as far as the eye can see,
And I died young and glamorous.
I’m dead now and past lovers leave tears at my grave—
Tears of joy, silly!
At my funeral, the orchestra played “Barnum and Bailey’s Favorite,”
And the parlor had more vibrancy than a San Franciscan gay pride parade.
But my splendid crowd smirked and smiled, hollered and hooted, clapped and cheered and roared and giggled and…
Laughed.
Oh how they laughed!
Seagull
Anna Westendorf
I know this road. I have driven it countless times
with you—windows down, music up. Casual
California summers always seemed so fresh, so
new—so alive... Time is ﬂuid as memories rush
over me. I feel them ﬂooding the car and I am
overwhelmed as stagnant nostalgia is replaced
by an understanding of this new world I must
adapt to.
Now taking slow, shaking breaths, I look at you
for the last time. I become dizzy with the reality
I can no longer ignore. Lightheaded, I slowly step
away from you, each tear a moment, a memory.
I try to remember to breathe (I wish I could for
you) and voices hover in the static air, fading in
and out of my consciousness. ey close the lid.
I close my eyes. I am aware of someone holding
I know this road. But I have not turned down me, but I have to struggle to feel something other
that side street, taking the slow curves, anxiety than this unfamiliar heaviness in my chest.
building as I round the last one. I have not before seen this peaceful and eerie expanse of grass I take a ﬂower. It is so bright...the way you had
stretching before me in the parking lot. I glance been. With an unsteady hand I reach out to drop
up at the clear blue sky and silently curse the it. I let go of the stem, but can't seem to convince
cruelty of a beautiful day in March.
myself to let go of you.
I sit in my car for what seems like hours (or perhaps only a ﬂeeting second) before I realize I
must get up (pick myself up again, move on). I
catch my reﬂection in the window and swear I
can see my heart nearly beating out of my chest.
I feel the sun warming my bare shoulders as I
reach for my jacket.
I remember one chilly December night on a
friend's back porch: a few friends, a few drags oﬀ
a clove, a few drinks. I remember your arm
around me, keeping me warm as my head rested
on your shoulder. I remember I settled into the
comfortable and familiar happiness that comes
with being home (home will never be the same),
letting the laughter and chatter wash over me. I
I narrate my motions in my head. Inhale, exhale. remember. I will always remember.
Close the door. Deep breath...release. Repeat.
One, two steps. Hesitate. Here lies a truth I am It’s late—you need to go home. Another ciganot prepared to face. Whispering to myself to rette, another hug, and you're gone.
the rhythm of my slow, painful footsteps—why,
why, why...
You're gone.
I am not surprised by how loved you are. I recognize the faces, but do not process their presence. I feel alone in a mind-numbingly silent
world. Everything is a surreal dreamland, and I
am ﬂoating.
I can feel myself choking as I reach you too soon.
“Flight” by Ryan Tuck
16
Jake Stains
On the Farm
And the way the girl moves—
A hippie dreamer,
Peace believer,
Dancing naked
—Reborn; free.
Oh how her hair—
Strands of gold honey,
Sticky with sweat
—Flies through the heavy air.
And the feet—
With ten long toes,
Covered in brown
—Stomp to the rhythm
Of seven brass horns.
While the band grooves and sways—
Beats from the soul
Pull marionette strings
—Eyes follow that girl.
But now the song’s over—
Brass band oﬀstage
Leaves thick silence,
Hanging
—And the dancer is gone.
18
dear dr. Anxiety, dance
& always remember the time
we burned
sugar.
Jason Jedr us
iak
you said “squeeze the ﬂame & Bite Your Tongue.”
oh! that dark aroma playfully explores the body
of my throat; its sweet lust clutches blood
thy Mood looks past the turquoise gray clouds
& bathes in the candied bouquet of Envy
the garden whispers: taste taste taste
I listen.
paradise
we howl at A waxing moon Of ﬁre
thorns of pleasure fever thou skin
I escape Again
until morning devours
our delicious
sordid
Fancy?
“The Clash” by Jessica Moog
Addya Bhowmick
Trainwreck
How many times
Can the pieces be put
Back together
Before the seams refuse to heal?
Is it better, then,
To run screaming,
Scared,
In the direction from which you came?
Away from what could be either your
Salvation or
Undoing?
Or quite possibly,
As it always is,
ey are two faces to the same coin.
So let's ﬂip—
Heads,
You stay,
You love,
You win.
Tails,
You run
Before you can shatter.
So why cut and run
When you've never been more happy,
When you have not felt so light
In so long?
Because in the pit of your stomach
Sinks a stone of doubt and truth
at will never allow you to ﬂoat too high
And will always,
Always,
Keep you down.
20
“Looking Through” by C. Benedix
of
StBalain
ckness
James Cucchi
Sirens whirred by outside as omas Jackson
lay on his bed He just lay there, silently watching the blades of a cheap ceiling fan slowly go
round and round. It had been a rough day, he
thought, raising his hands and staring at the
blackness that stained them. is blackness,
he reﬂected, had ruined his life and dashed his
hopes. e empty white plaster walls, decaying
carpet, and wobbly table were the least of his
worries. If he could change one thing in his
life it would be the blackness. As the wail of
the sirens passed nearby,omas turned on his
MP3 player and thought back on how the
black stain had aﬀected his life that very night.
thought, and go back to a time when he didn’t
have a care in the world and had not yet been
jaded from years of menial jobs and unfulﬁlled
dreams.
As the bus drove onward, omas walked past
windows plastered with advertisements for
Coca-Cola and Marlboro cigarettes and entered a small convenience store. As he pulled
the door open with a ring, the stench of smoke
smacked him in the face. He noticed the
source almost immediately—the Italian proprietor, Giuseppe, was stocking packs of chewing gum and other assorted candies into the
racks behind the stained wooden counter, and
smoking a large cigar. He did not look up as
omas came in.
“Giuseppe’s” was a neighborhood institution.
omas remembered a diverse array of kids
ﬂocking to the store in droves during the summertime to take advantage of the dusty old air
conditioner in the back window and a variety
of hand-scooped Italian ice—lemon, cherry, or
blue raspberry. Likewise, an older crowd, all
Italians, congregated near the meat counter
along one wall. ey sat there talking and admiring the marbled salamis, bolognas, and
even a whole smoked codﬁsh hanging from
the ceiling. At this hour, though, the store was
empty.
It all started on Columbus Avenue. omas
was trudging home after a day trying to eke
out a living. He was currently subsiding on
welfare checks, but they couldn’t always make
ends meet. A man like him couldn’t get a job,
even in the city of Boston—people took one
look and had seen enough. He couldn’t keep
track of the times he’d heard the phrase, “I’m
sorry, these are tough times,” or, “We don’t
think you would ﬁt in here.” ey sounded
considerate and made sure to come up with a
likely story, but it was all lies—he knew the real
reason they didn’t hire him.
omas wandered down the middle aisle, careful to avoid knocking over a teetering magaA yellow school bus rumbled by, full of youths zine rack with his coat. Although he had
coming home from the suburbs. Music blared walked past the store countless times over the
out of the windows and a cacophony of rowdy past month and a half since moving into the
voices echoed loudly as the brakes brought the neighborhood, omas had only gone inside
bus to a screeching stop at a red light. If only once or twice. Tonight his legs were too tired
he could be one of those kids again, omas for the walk down to the supermarket after the
22
day’s hectic events, and he was in need of a
quick dinner. In the back of the store, amid
racks of potato chips and cheese snacks a
month out of date, he noticed several stalelooking sub sandwiches beneath a sign that
read “Made Fresh is Morning.” Finding one
that seemed edible, omas brought it up to
the counter.
Stooped over behind the counter, Giuseppe
was busy placing fresh rolls of lottery tickets
into the dispensers lining the back wall. A
gruﬀ voice emanated from an old black-andwhite television in the corner, telling of a daring bank heist that had taken place only hours
earlier in a nearby neighborhood. Giuseppe
did not even look up as omas placed his
meal on the counter with a loud thud.
“One second, one second,” Giuseppe called out
as he slid the last roll of tickets into the holder.
e thick Italian accent ﬁt the man so well that
omas couldn’t help but smile to himself. He
doubted that he could ﬁnd someone more Italian in any part of the city, including the North
End. Giuseppe’s large, pointed nose, which
gave him a somewhat patrician air reminiscent
of Caesar or a wealthy Medici, leaped out at
omas as the man rose to serve him.
“at’ll be three-ﬁfty,” said Giuseppe as he
reached for the register to ring in the purchase,
still not looking at omas.
he stammered, “Get out...get out of my store.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to buy some supper, chill
out,” replied omas, taken aback.
“No, people like you ruined this neighborhood!” roared Giuseppe, now once again in
possession of his faculties as he reached under
the wooden counter.
Seeing Giuseppe’s movement,omas grabbed
the sub and ran for the door. Once outside, he
sneaked a glance back and saw Giuseppe
standing in the window with a short wooden
club in hand. omas dashed around the corner, wiping sweat oﬀ his forehead, and jogged
a block or so until his heart ﬁnally stopped racing.
omas couldn’t keep his mind quiet.
oughts of “What does this mean?” and
“What should I do next?” popped into his head
as he replayed the incident over and over.
Once he looked back and thought he saw the
old Italian following him from afar, but when
he looked again the ﬁgure had turned down
another street. His mind was playing tricks on
him. Clearly, omas thought, he couldn’t
continue living in this city that he just recently
had begun to call home. He couldn’t stay, and
he had to get out as soon as possible. He made
his mind up on the spot to leave the very next
morning. His aching back and legs, sore from
a long day, were the only things preventing him
from leaving that night. e move would be
nothing new: omas felt more at home on the
road than he did anywhere else.
As omas placed the money on the counter,
Giuseppe glanced up at him and froze. His
eyes locked on omas’s hands, slowly made
their way over his jacket, and ﬁnally settled on
his face. Giuseppe’s mouth opened, but no He silently slipped into his building’s laundry
words came out. As redness crept into his face room through the back door and creakily as-
cended the stairs to his room. He ﬂung his
backpack into the corner, went to the sink, and
began scrubbing his hands. “Why won’t this
blackness just come out?” he thought to himself, almost sobbing. He held up his hands to
the mirror and stared at the darkness that
would not budge no matter how hard he
scrubbed.
omas threw himself down onto his bed as
the sound of sirens a few blocks away reached
his ears. A little sleep might do some good,
clear the mind, he thought as he closed his
eyes.
When he awoke, the beam light from the
street lamp was shining against his wall, projecting the gnarled shadow of a black tree
branch against the pale plaster wall. omas
sighed, turned on his music, and lay pondering
his future. e skyscrapers of New York City,
which towered over anything Boston had to
oﬀer, seemed to be beckoning him to new
heights, new dreams of grandeur. In New York
nobody knew him—he would blend in with
the multitudes of people, get a job, disappear
into society, and maybe even live a normal
life—one that he could not live in Boston.
e sirens had by now come to a halt, and
omas heard doors slamming on the street
below. Removing his headphones and peering
out the window, he saw four squad cars parked
on the street and about a dozen oﬃcers disembarking onto the sidewalk. His blood froze.
omas leaped out of bed, knocking his new
cellular phone to the ﬂoor, and ran to the sink.
He stared at his face in the old mirror—it was
as pale as a ghost. He attacked his hands again,
scrubbing futilely at the black ink. As footsteps thudded up the stairs, omas dashed to
his backpack and opened it, frantically ripping
out bundles of ink-stained bills and stuﬃng
them under his mattress. He had almost ﬁnished by the time the door was smashed in.
e End
i
n
k
s
H
e
r
ShMeid
s
i
dle Name
Danger
Abby Zorbaugh
I hear about her face before I see it;
his punches must have been painful.
Was this a mere mosh pit casualty,
or did her belligerence spark concertgoers’ violence?
Not till midafternoon does she amble out
squinting and groaning,
brown bathrobe hanging limply from her naked frame,
dead-eyed.
Her curly hair reaches new heights:
it’s matted and tangled like Edward Scissorhands—
near the movie’s end, when he stops trying to ﬁt in.
e lock clicks on the bathroom door.
We count the minutes she showers,
afraid she’ll pass out in there
again.
Leaving our apartment would require explanations,
so she doesn’t.
I hear her lie on the phone,
saying she’s ﬁne
but worries she has a concussion.
“Por trait” by Cait Madden
I have places to be, but feel guilty leaving:
her immaturity makes me protective.
She meets inquiries with one-word responses
or teen angst, depending on her mood.
A volatile mess, she’s not the ﬁrst I’ve wanted to ﬁx.
I’ve got to stop clutching ﬁreworks.
24
Grass
Because of the warm sun
and the evening air
we held class outside
on the dew-damp grass,
my students’ books and bags
transversed by little insects
intent on the completion
of insistent secret tasks—
e wet grass seemed to
grow beneath stained denim
and wet cotton, heavy limbs
making strange beds
of the green ﬁbrous blades,
which pointed in all directions
and sometimes down to earth
where under grass and sod
lay a cemetery of children
long asleep beneath the living—
Impressions
Timothy Strange
Tonight I recall the
sounds of uncorrelated words
And when they went back
to tiny rooms and cots,
my students shared in that
grassy twilight Babel
leaving behind strange impressions
in the green-bladed yard
while for 200 miles down
gravestones of lost children
like monstrous, deformed grass angels,
ghosts of their hour spent there,
rose in mournful clusters
of marble and forgotten words,
all I could think was how
nice to go home and sit
the voices of the children
murmuring in dark graves
in half-light, drinking coﬀee
while the sun disappears,
of the searing sweetness
of waking on summer mornings
holding back the trickle
of terror that has welled up
to the din and delight of
a thousand thousand hours
into the cellar of my brain
while that ﬁeld of grass,
wasted joyfully while supple
hands turned into cold stones—
emblazoned with the impressions
made by unwary youths,
holds down the rising stones
of children’s graves underground.
26
“Land on Me” by Carolyn Meer s
Incognitus
Tar a P. Vilk
Coils of light reﬂect back, slithering along pavement ordained with gum and
broken patches of concrete ﬁlled with green life.
Home for so long, the past stretches and arches its back;
the dips and valleys ﬂow like sound waves.
Future is voracious, and I without a shield
fail to ﬁnd clarity in a blurry sky.
Growls from below hunger for motion
as snakes turn to shadows.
Weather waivers as my moods,
dictated by Climate’s schedule,
vacillate, minute lightning bolts which
spear, spewing stars from Midnight’s belly.
Why return for answers that will not be?
Why wait for resolution that will not come?
ese diamond freckles oﬀer no value
but to enhance the beauty of the face they lie upon.
e outlook, ever evasive, is observable only after its creation.
As a loyal dog follows its owner, so does our history follow us.
28
“Shatter” by Jason Jedr usiak
e little self-worth that I have has been shattered. Who do I think I am? I can
read a poem. I can write a paper. I can watch a bird dip and dive through a cloudless sky and know the true meaning behind it, or at least relate it to something of
substance.
I have optic nerves and opposable thumbs. I am not a writer. I am a human who
can see, think, feel and articulate. I am not saving children in Darfur or creating
means of sustainable energy. I am simply watching evolution day after day and
putting it to paper.
Caroline Steuer nagel
working title
30
Anyone can look out their own window and see a girl bicycling or a vagabond
begging for change. Anyone can feel the reactions to these images. Anyone can
pick up a pen, write them down, add a date and call it poetry.
Where do I go from here?
i
f
e
DoL
einsan’t Fit
Spreadsheet
Rebecca Payne
life doesn't ﬁt in a spreadsheet
every aspect quantized
minutia-ized to the nth decimal place.
there's never enough time to
gather data
consider options;
choices are forced. rolling deadlines
leave estimates in vital variables
and some can never be ﬁlled at all
( is love on a scale of one to ten?
what is the square root of family ties? )
a haphazard experiment:
no control group
no multiple independent trials;
impartiality's ﬁction—each run built on the bias before
trying to oﬀset these inﬂuences with
methods and protocols that deﬁne interactions,
from holding a fork to searching the net
from courtship to stages of grief,
is an eﬀort at standardization of the
inherently unstable process:
an ultimately failed attempt to
subdivide knowable parts
from an inﬁnite whole
ArtProfessor
e
I planted your thoughts in my burial plot in
the memorial park under the sign that says
“Curb your dog; keep off the grass.” I drew you
a map out of my forgotten notes, my drafts, my
dreams and research, and my favorite book that
you can’t remember. It’s been so long since the
last time I followed you now and sent a panther to look for you in a desperate way that you
live on the tenth floor and it couldn’t fit in the
elevator. I saw your lights, I found out your inspiration wasn’t anything more than a busy
street full of rich people and overpriced merchandise, and your music selection for the
soundtrack of your failures was something you
illegally downloaded from the discount rack
next to the register and the can of pins on sale
for a dollar that tell you to “Fuck off ” and
“That’s what she said.” Your people-watching
skills aren’t enough to pay the rent on your expensive hole-in-the-wall so you pick up a pencil and pass it on and hope someone cares, but
when someone does you don’t know what to
do with yourself.
In a way, it’s the saddest thing that’s ever happened to you that your mother didn’t buy you
from a department store with the money she
saved from her private enterprise to put to
good use her knowledge of what privilege buys
from the right people. Someday you’ll meet the
right person and think that you wish you were
young again because now you are too old and
your canvases are starting to shrink. In the cavern of your inspiration you’ll wrap up nice and
Ana Roth
neat and tidy the thoughts you were too afraid
to live for and pretend that they don’t exist, it
didn’t happen, and in the end you’ll know, I’ll
know, he she it they we all will know what you
really meant to do with your time. You keep a
box of paints as a pet and know you never really did anything too risky but you’re better off
than anyone who did because at least you’re
happy, you tell yourself, because you knew from
the start that it was all just a bunch of bullshit,
you tell yourself, and you needed something to
distract yourself so you bought a book, you
took a class, you spent a little too much time
alone with yourself and smoked a little too
much of something you couldn’t afford and
waste not want not. Dig a hole in your father’s
trust fund and get comfortable because it’s
gonna be a long winter, baby. I remember that
you had a plastic tree in your overpriced apartment and it matched your cheap shoes that you
owned and bought and paid for and you couldn’t remember what you were doing so you did
something else. I hope you did enough to keep
yourself satisfied.
Someday you’re gonna find the one and say,
“Baby, you’re the one, let’s get married, let’s
start our lives because these last few decades
were only a practice run. Let’s tie our lives together, let’s spend all the time in the world,
baby, the world is gonna end and it’s gonna be
too soon. Let’s go on a honeymoon, let’s go on
a cruise. Let’s have kids, let’s settle down, let’s
live in the suburbs, let’s remember what it’s like
32
to be young and in love while we do nothing you say good-bye in the morning with a smile
like it. Baby, I love you, you’re the only one for and a kiss and maybe the hope that things will
me.”
get better because, God knows, they can’t get
worse. Crack open a cheap beer and fire up the
In your exotic island of faraway plans and joint grill and kiss the cook because your reign of
checking accounts and matching the drapes mediocrity is just beginning and, baby, it’s
with the rugs and picking out your faucets to gonna be a long summer.
clean the dishes that pile up at your Hanukkah
dinners and pretending not to notice how your Remember your honeymoon and remember
world is shrinking you will stop and look that cruise your momma’s money bought you
around and say, “Baby, nothing’s wrong.” I hope next to the flatware and the blenders and the
your new corporate job supports you enough, monogrammed towels and the tacky albums
buys you a new car to park in that garage paid and the thousands of signatures and photos
for with your money and freedom and inde- and memories of varying degrees of pain, and
pendence you worked for so hard and these your wife got sick from the all-you-can-eat
past few decades were just a practice run. Don’t buffet on the main deck and your boat hit an
forget to put your ring back on, check your face iceberg and your cabin filled with water and
in the rear-view mirror for lipstick that she left you couldn’t find a lifeboat, and here you are
when you left her and when you left yourself all these decades later from the second honeyback in the city all these years ago when I knew moon you find yourself stranded in Sweden
you inside a single building and you gave me with a casket and a story to tell your kids over
more than I asked for and you didn’t know ice cream from the drive-through, and they’ll
what to do with yourself. Your inspiration was cry but you can’t find the room in your soul
a busy street with rich people and expensive overcrowded with the memories of your prostores and you paid too much rent for your tiny fessional people-watching and illegal downapartment and you lived with your sister and loads and expensive streets and bad paints and
you worked your freelance and goddamn you old canvases and fake plants and dirty sneakers
had your freedom and your integrity and the and worn backpacks and bad coffee and the afworld was a big bright place full of opportuni- ternoon you spent in the park dreaming that
ties to come knocking on your bolted chained life would be better than everything it turned
door you decorated with sketches and stickers out to be when you turned around and said,
from bad shows you saw in college with ugly “Baby, you’re the one for me.”
girls and drunk guys because you didn’t want to
do your homework. Your heart, your house was
full of your paintings and your favorite people
you saw on your busy expensive street. Their
faces bought you your house in the suburbs,
your new shiny car, your kids’ college education
and the hotel rooms you used to cheat on your
wife and your electric toothbrush and the way
tran
ge
Tim
ot h
yS
Aubade
A Saturday morning,
spring, 1977,
I awoke to the music
of swingset chains
before the sunrise—
Katie Earnest was up
before the light,
launching herself
again and again
on rusty chains
into the purple air—
(What was she doing
out there so early?)—
For no reason at all
I was sad,
thinking
of her waking before dawn,
cold and sleepy
and descending the stairs,
moving into the yard
across the field from
the muddy Red River,
sitting on the white
plastic seat,
launching herself,
launching herself
at nothing.
Natalie Sc hack
Papyrus
The colors are beautiful, visceral.
Gold hurled against orange,
in a motion like a murderous fist crushing
an object of hate,
blending flesh with bone,
bone with blood:
an ecstasy of color and texture.
Its delicate rice paper is kept crumpled
to artistic tenderness,
filmy edges torn for avant-garde appeal
flutter posthumously,
exposed fibers waving softly
from the AC—deadcold, robot air—
while pasted-on glitter plunges painfully to
the floor.
All up for sale:
another whore on the block.
34
“Let it Rest” by Cait Madden
36
“Thought I’d See You One More Time” by Gina Bollenback
Orient Point
Athulya Aravind
Dear N______, as if by some nameless god’s command,
I’ve remained shackled here for some time.
Mother calls me Bertha, some crazy lady in the attic,
The self-sentenced prisoner.
Only you know (don’t you?) that the thoughts
Of you have rendered me immobile.
Do you remember (tell me you do!)
The night at Orient Point?
We played trespassers on someone else’s
Intimate haven, feigning abandon we never possessed.
A starless sky, the roof over our heads,
We coveted the miniature block houses
Scattered like Lego pieces across the field.
Some distant church bell strikes eight,
The sun beating on my face, my night has just begun.
You must be sprinting up the subway stairs,
Your face flustered with concern at
That coffee spill on your tie.
The creases on your forehead deepen.
You are quite the serious man these days.
Darling N______, I am a mere shade,
My tiny grey particles bonded
By the memories of your scent. I think
Of Orient Point, muster the strength to think some more.
The way the universe, the silent spectator, hushed its spirits,
The way you stared, fixedly, at nothing—and I, at you—
As you slowly buttoned your shirt.
Thoughts swirl about my shadow brain like
Whirlpools of cream in black coffee.
And in these thoughts I see your face,
Grains of sand, your five o’clock shadow,
Prickle my fingers as I trace them along your chin,
Across your chest, around your navel;
With the contours of my name I draw myself a path.
You’ve been busy, but I wish you’d write.
Don’t you remember, N______, don’t you, don’t you
Remember, I used to lie beside you.
Maybe I have become just a blip on your mind-map.
Yet I write, even if the recipient is some elusive space, even
If my words are swallowed by some harshly indifferent vacuum,
I write to you.
38
“Specula” by Carolyn Meer s
s
u
s
eand
D
e
r
t
e
i
s
s
s
e
h
W
J
In the back of my closet is a dress that has
hung there motionless for half a decade. It’s
too sweet, too small, and too white for me. Yet
it stays there and I cling to it the way people
cling to the past and to the future and to the
slightest possibility of talent. I wore it once, in
an ecstasy of childish delight and excitement,
wearing white in a gray world. We were clean,
clean white slates, white as our clothes, which
were new and bought especial for the occasion.
Being Catholic used to mean church and
cookies on Sundays. It meant seeing my
cousins and listening to stories and laughing
with Father Mack. It wasn’t sacrifice and it
wasn’t love. It wasn’t religion.Then again, what
was, when I was seven?
The church is circular, not rectangular like
most chapels. The worshippers radiate around
the altar, and suspended from the ceiling is
Jesus himself, hovering on his cross in midair,
halfway between the pinnacled ceiling and the
floor. Sometimes I would contemplate him
while the priest was speaking of sinners being
punished. Up there always, forever attached to
that block of wood, with his ribs jutting out
awfully from his abdomen, so much so that if
you laid him horizontally and poured water on
him, he’d have little tide pools in his tummy. I
can imagine him watching us try it, as curious
as we are about the outcome, and then laugh-
Natalie Schack
ing with delight at the little pools and fishes,
his own aquarium right in his tummy. When
he laughs his eyes are closed, and when he
opens them you can see the melancholy that
clouds the back of every expression: the eternal
sadness even when he is laughing at tide pools
in his tummy.
I’m confused at this paradox of emotion in his
eyes. He accepts that there will always be wood
attached to his back, that he died to save the
world and people are still murdering their
wives and raping children and waging crusades. I can imagine that if I were him, hanging from the ceiling from a clear thread (to
look like he was floating), I would feel as if I
had given up. He always looked so haggard. I
wonder if he thought it would change everything when he died, that he was saving us from
ourselves. Now, 2000 years older and wiser, he
can only plead with sad eyes, resisting the despair that centuries of horror have sown in
him.
On the day of my communion, he hung there
as usual and no one noticed. How many times
had no one noticed? How many days did he sit
there quietly, how many nights after the door
was locked so thieves couldn’t steal any more of
the Stations of the Cross did he hover in the
dark, motionless, waiting for the next batch of
sinners?
40
“Wedding Day” by Natasha Mbabazi
We were a river of flowing, chattering, whiteclothed girls and boys with hakus and ti leaf
leis and no idea what we were doing, no idea
what we were committing ourselves to. No idea
that our soul was at stake, no idea that we were
pretending to have learned, in a few years,
something it takes a lifetime to know for sure.
And like obedient little souls we marched
marched marched up to the priest and had
wine (“...ugh...”) and the flat bread with the
flavor I just can’t put my finger on. Our eyes
were fresh and our minds were as fresh and
pure as that dress in my closet. Our white
dresses gleamed all the way down to the altar,
like a bride, marrying herself blindly to a belief.
I remember pride at having the prettiest, finest
communion banner, with a silk Sacred Heart
and floral cross and roses and gold braid. I remember not wanting to say anything about it
“Wedding Day” by Natasha Mbabazi
because church is just not the right place to
brag. And I remember the red punch after, always, motivation to be a good girl.
Now the dress is stowed in the back, along
with black and white and along with childhood and along with Sunday School. It keeps
company with playing outside and having
birthday parties with piñatas and it goes to
sleep with ballet and karate and my other
childhood memories, my other experiments.
I’ll never fit it again, and it will never mean the
same thing to me. But I can’t throw it away and
I don’t know why.
Sprawled out on my dirty, sheetless mattress in white denim shorts and a bra,
through my windows hot light reaches spindly towards my body
as the mice squeak and sputter, racing across linoleum tiles.
Summer.
During the nighttime I waste away on Newbury Street,
serving overpriced pizza to rich tourists from Italy, or Paris, or Hong Kong,
with their boxy, expensive purses and fingers that point to the things they want.
after, my hair rich with garlic, I’ll collapse from the steep uphill walk
into my shoddy apartment,
six hundred a month but I somehow plead my dad into paying half.
He doesn’t know I live with six tall boys and an empty fridge,
the scummy white plastered with German magnetic poetry left by the tenants
before us
that we push together into foreign nonsense phrases
then look up late at night on the internet.
W
Rachel Zar rell
onderland
I am sprinting downhill to Jimmy’s apartment on Darling Street.
Jimmy doesn’t believe in phones, or keys,
(or bank accounts)
so I shout his name from the parking lot below his window
until he steps onto his balcony
and looks down at me,
smiling,
a wine glass clasped tight in his hand.
Jimmy loves boys like I do, but since he knows what they want like I never
can,
and since he is 21 and I am 18,
I know I would do absolutely anything for him,
and probably have,
so I break into his building with my credit card and run upstairs.
we have known each other all of two weeks, my new friends and I,
and so are infatuated with the heady restlessness of being attached,
of how easy it is.
we count and coddle the days that stretch out before us,
each one lazy and sticky, like candy.
one night all of us crowd into a dirty bi-level, wedged behind a Burger King.
Eli takes my hand as we walk through the drive-thru,
and I peel a stamp off our shared fries that says we won fifty dollars,
which he pockets and promises to mail and split with me
when I get back in the Fall.
(I never hear about it again.)
and I overhear him, later, talking sloshily about liking me,
which I try to ignore and he forgets entirely by noon the next day.
but, despite myself, I can feel that I Iove him already;
all of them, painfully,
an aching only boys can inflict, wanting to hold them or mend, when all I
can do is
42
make pasta at 2 am, or let them spin me, earnestly,
while we ballroom dance drunk in a living room.
and it’s three or four in the morning now.
we’re all fuzzy-headed and cold, walking to a Chinese restaurant someone
swears is only
one more block, one more block,
and Jimmy yells into my phone at his best friend home in Georgia,
or else he’s singing showtunes in the restaurant at dawn,
uncaring to the dirty looks and snapping when I try to tell him,
and Eli probably hums to himself or smiles at me;
and I hide my grin and think how we’ll be neighbors in the fall,
but it’s too far away to wrap my head around.
and in the moment I think,
falsely,
how nice it will be to see each other all the time,
and even let that thought slide me into a deep sleep,
too many warm nights to count.
but it’s still Summer.
I am leaving in one week to be a camp counselor
for cynical 13-year-old girls.
I get fired from the pizza place so I retreat to Wonderland every morning
instead,
a sad little beach that skirts the poorer areas of the city.
on the T the tan men stare at my brown bikini straps,
sometimes asking me foreign questions in smooth, coalescing Portuguese.
once there, I swirl white vanilla ice cream onto my tongue,
then pose as there’s a flash of the five of us, our arms around each other’s
waists,
ankle-deep in the foamy yellow surf that’s crowded with pollen.
We drink too much, always, and get restless,
so at midnight, my last night, we hike to the park up the hill,
up past the tire swings and the glinting metal slide.
while the boys talk quietly on the boulders about things only boys know
and I never will, their voices muffled just out of my reach,
I stargaze alone and collapse into
long, cool grass,
content and not caring, like I should, that this will all end soon,
how coats and scarves will bring with them the disconnect,
the anxious, hasty meetings in the dark, aimless attempts to get back to
this place we had,
and then the truth: about all of us,
about how being alive is just easier in the summertime,
how the buzz of warmth will peel away and leave only hurt,
even if I spend the whole season denying it to myself:
none of us will remember how to love people like that by the time the cold
sets in.
Megan Varanyak
Jarett, coarse hair, wide smile, and those cowboy boots. He likes to say:
“Hello.”
The time, the place—it doesn’t matter.
Walks up to the counter at the corner store and always says:
“Hello.”
Tuesday nights we meet. Holding clippings in my left hand, one large Starbucks
coffee in his right. Right across the table he will catch my glimpse. Crossed-legged, a
sitting Indian chief.
Orders the tuna and California roll to share at Bonzai—he likes sushi. Tries to use
the chopsticks, but his fingers can never seem to grip. Stumble between their
structures. Tries twice. It works. Resort to a fork? No, not him.
Jarett is always inspired. The stars of last night’s meteor shower, soaring from some
unforeseen destination, he would say, changed his life.
Replay that song. Track 5, with the soft melody:
So what if now is all we have?
Live as if you never knew
what it was to lose.
Grinning, Jarett will claim he has been enlightened from lyrical prose.
Capture the world is what he does through a lens. Blends the chemicals in the dark
with the scarce light being one small bulb overhead. It is almost as if he is lost in the
dark of night, only the hanging moon illuminating his path.
Lost.
Well does anyone ever know where they are going? he asked me one warm night.
No, I said. No. But it is good to have plans, make plans.
No, just live, simply enjoy, he said.
Into the city one August day, we took the metro downtown. It was rainy, miserable.
A summer day when the heat sticks to your skin. Pushed up against strangers, I
grimaced. Unplanned.
Jarett, with his coarse hair and wide smile, held my hand.
He looked forward, met the eyes of an unknown man:
“Hello.”
The businessman, stiff, eased:
We need more friendly faces on a day like this one.
The stop was reached. Jarett’s cowboy boots clicked off the subway. You don’t know,
that just made my life, he said. His stare was deep.
I sware, you don’t know.
44
“Dawn Looks to Dusk Looks to Dawn” by Carolyn Meer s
“Individual, Indivisible” by Sier r a Smith
For more artwork by :
Gina Bollenback
Natasha Mbabazi
Sier r a Smith
Carolyn Meers
www.bollenback-g.smugmug.com
community.webshots.com/user/tas319
nodyourwar lock.deviantar t.com
www.flickr.com/photos/lynny_lou/
Spectr um Literar y Ar ts Magazine
Fall 2009